


Tikkun Olam

by deepercreeper (downdeepinside)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Kidfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/deepercreeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The British government wasn't born great. It didn't start with a free health care system, or an all-inclusive vote. Heck, in the beginning, it wasn't even run by a well-educated individual. In the olden days, all you had to do to run Great Britain was swoop in with a big army and lots of scary weapons, kill the current guy sitting on the throne, and from there you could do as you pleased.</p><p>The British government wasn't born great - and arguably it still isn't today, but it has grown: that much is clear. It has grown.</p><p>Just as Mycroft Holmes once did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love teenlock, and kidlock, and all of that! But you know what I also love? I also love Mycroft Holmes.
> 
> So, here is my effort of make Mycrofts' story. 
> 
> I'm not sure what the update speed will be... or even if I'll continue, but I'm aiming to and I hope you enjoy either way!
> 
> (Tikkun Olam - 'repairing the world'.)

Mycroft stretched his arms out behind his back and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun shining on his face. Clumsily, he fell to the floor; crossing his legs awkwardly underneath his body and resting his palms flush against the slightly damp grass before him. Behind him stood the house, seemingly insignificant from the outlook, but Mycroft knew there was something more there. There was a tired woman with a world of mathematics stored behind her kind, sparkling eyes, his fruit bat of a father who knew how to calm any dispute with a simple smile and a social nicety, and a young boy (just three years old) who was already set to be a criminal mastermind. Or a genius scientist. Maybe both. Mycroft wasn’t sure yet, since at three years of age Sherlock Holmes was yet to actually _say_ anything, but he was almost certain there was something more going on behind Sherlock’s mysterious grey eyes and thick dark curls then he let on.

It was as if, at his young age, Sherlock had already noticed how the maths community had shut his mother down and broken her the tiniest bit. Or how others treated those who were significantly... Significant so differently it was frightening. It was as if Sherlock wasn’t really three at all, but instead a wise old man dressed in a bumblebee suit and with an odd fascination with dead animals. Someone wiser sent to the world to live again, to teach everyone else what they were doing wrong.

The ginger haired boy sighed and let his back fall back until he hit the floor, squinting up at the blue sky overhead and pushing his knees up towards the sun. Somewhere, from within the house, he heard Mummy calling for him, and he contemplated getting up before looking at his splayed out hands and smiling. He had about six minutes, he reckoned, before she decided to check outside. Then it would be at least another eight for her to realise he was in the field behind the house, well hidden by a large oak tree that was placed just right for hiding without – at the same time – blocking the sun.

Mycroft loved summer.

Unlike most of his family, he didn’t suffer from terrible hay fever that forced both his parents to stay hidden away indoors – ensuring their skin stayed vampire-white all year round – and was able to roll around in the grass like the child he’d never admit he was, enjoying the sight of his skin as it grew slightly pinker than normal, as his freckles darkened and dotted his nose much more vigorously than they ever did in the winter. The smell of freshly cut grass, one he’s often surrounded by during the summer months in a town with an over-active local council, makes his blood thrum happily in his veins, and even the irritating birdcall that wakes him up just a hour before he would do so naturally, makes him smile as he thinks the birds are talking to each other, chattering away happily and enjoying the same things he’s enjoying.

Of course, he knows that’s not really what the bird song is. That actually their chirping is something… different entirely, as his father had explained with an amused tilt to his smile and a glazed-over look in his eyes,  but out in the sun, lying on his back and letting the mud seep through his tee-shirt, Mycroft can pretend. And he can dream. He can dream of bright blue uniforms, and exciting car chases, and late nights walking home from the pub in the height of summer. He can dream of the life he so hopes to live, working outside, fighting criminals, being _the law_.

He likes to think wearing a police-hat would hide his ginger hair that the other children at school so enjoy poking fun at. He hopes that being a policeman will show bloody Mike Montgomery whose boss.

“Mikey?”

Ah, there. Mycroft winced a little at the sound of his mother’s voice, much closer now than it was several minutes ago, and he pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the mud from his hands on his jeans, and briefly contemplating running to hide again before deciding that will do nothing but postpone his inevitable telling-off. He steals a glance at his mother, peering nervously from around a parked car, and reluctantly walks towards her. The woman’s eyes, after a moment, catch on to her muddy son stalking across the road with his head hung low, and she sighs before folding her arms.

“Inside, now.”

Mycroft nodded and quickly dodged away from a gentle hand heading to stroke down his neck. He broke into a run as he approached the window, a pair of wide bluish-grey eyes peering out from the lounge with open curiosity, and the bathroom door slammed shut shortly afterwards as he sets the bath running with hot water and peels of his grass-stained clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft wasn’t allowed to go outside without Mummy’s express permission, and while it was almost certain that if he were to ask to go down to the local pond to feed the ducks he would be given a bag of bread and the woman’s blessing, there was something too damned _childish_ and, quite frankly, humiliating, about having to ask to go outside. Instead, he sat on his bed, feet dangling down and barely skimming the carpet below.  His gaze was fixed on the outside world, where the air was hot and the wind was low, blinding lights bouncing off any and every surface and the heat causing everyone who walked down the street to be coated in a fine layer of sticky sweat. Idly, his fingers traced the engraved letters on his bound copy of _Churchill’s Greatest Speeches_ and, despite just last week having begged the copy off of Mummy, he finds himself overwhelmingly disinterested.

Downstairs, in the lounge where brightly coloured toys littered the floor and hardly a crack of light made it through the window hidden behind an overgrown bush no one quite cared to cut, both Mummy and Father crouch awkwardly on the floor, offering wide encouraging smiles to a (supposedly) lacklustre toddler who is sat, with his legs crossed under him just as his older brother will often sit, staring with blank eyes at his parents who coo, and awe, and desperately fight to hear his first words at this late age.

Eventually, they give up. Father settled in his arm chair and opens a T. S. Eliot, grumbling about how “any idiot could reach the conclusion that bloody life is bloody long” while Mummy bumbles around the house, wringing her hands and she walks past her ten year old sons closed door and tapping the kitchen surface as she stares out at the far-too-hot world.

As Mycroft places his book on the floor and rolls to lie on his side, he hears the quiet but distinct sound of a familiar toddler making his fumbling way up the stairs. The nineteen steep steps are a challenge for the boy, and every two confident stamps of little feet are followed by a long pause and secret huffs of breath. Mycroft stares at his blank door, listening intently, until he hears the thump of a child hitting the upstairs landing on all fours. There are more breaths, and an excited scrambling noise, before the latch on Mycroft’s bedroom door clicks and two wide eyes lock onto the older boys, exhibiting that wonderful combination of overly-excited and understandably-anxious at doing something he knows he isn’t strictly allowed to do.  

Mycroft blinks, before slowly sitting up and frowning at his little brother. He pulls on his ear and scrunches his nose before dropping down to the floor. “Er,” he coughs a little, his voice unused for several hours, and pulls his knees to his chest, “Hi.”

Sherlock, far too small for such a grand name, nods and pushes the door behind him shut a little. He joins his brother in sitting on the floor before grinning widely and giggling. The high-pitched sound, mischievous and loud in the way only a child could be, makes Mycroft’s ears buzz and he finds himself smiling and chuckling too, unsure why they’re laughing but still feeling like he’s in on the joke.  Eventually, Sherlock tails off and shakes his head, his eyes crinkling in joy, as he stands up and lets himself back out of the bedroom.

The oldest Holmes brother ruffles a hand through his short ginger hair and shakes his head, sharing a private smile with himself as he hears an astonished “Sherlock? How did you get up here?” from the landing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be really very useful, especially if anyone has anything they'd like to see or think would be good to write?
> 
> Also, kudos are always lovely.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
